


The Captivating Carraway

by dearlyfawn



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Pining, Rewrite, They Are Gay And In Love, prepare for tears, this is just a rewrite but i'm darn proud of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearlyfawn/pseuds/dearlyfawn
Summary: Following Daisy's decision to leave him behind, Jay Gatsby reminisces on one of the most important people in his life. In his last moments, Jay realizes how much Nick meant to him and is filled with thoughts of what might have been.





	The Captivating Carraway

I watched the sun rise on the horizon from the drawing room with one Mr. Nick Carraway standing beside me. We didn’t talk much: we didn’t need to. I was content to be silent and I doubted he had much to say. We tried not to think about the storm that was to come.

Emotionally, I felt exhausted, yet I knew my physical being wouldn’t allow for sleep. I was shaking and suddenly I was overcome by the urge to cry. It felt overwhelming and wrong to the masculine, wealthy and always optimistic facade I had so carefully constructed. 

“I don’t think she ever loved him.” I turned and looked at Nick, waiting for him to argue with me. I almost wanted him to. I wanted him to tell me exactly how wrong I was. Perhaps that would help me out of my lovesickness. He just sat there, however, staring at me. Silent. There was pity on his face. It forced me to go on. “You must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.” I sighed heavily, sitting on the loveseat, putting my head in my hands. I could still feel Nick’s eyes permeating my skull. It gave me a headache.

“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?” I stood, stuffing my hands in my pocket. “In any case, it was just personal.” Even I didn’t really know what I meant by that. 

Leaving Nick and not wishing to say anything more, I went into the kitchen. I half expected to see my servants pacing about, then remembered I had sent all of them away. Walking into the pantry, I pulled a couple eggs out of a basket. I fried them up, burning them around the edges and altogether overcooking the yolk. Nick walked in, wrinkling his nose in disgust. When I caught his eye, he feigned gratitude. It frustrated me to no end. I wanted to yell at him to treat me normally, instead of like a kicked puppy. Without speaking, he pulled two plates from the shelves, placing them in front of us. He grabbed a spatula and served up the abysmal excuse for breakfast. We ate in silence, chewing the rubbery mess and pretending that we liked it. No amount of salt and pepper could fix this.

Following breakfast, Nick and I went out on the porch, staring out across the bay. It looked peaceful and yet my eye was still being drawn to that big, beautiful, old money home. Was Daisy thinking of me, or was I simply grasping at a delusion I had leached onto for more than 5 years?

The silence was abruptly interrupted by Mr. Green, the groundskeeper. “I’m going to drain the pool to-day, Mr. Gatsby.” I felt something inside me give. It sounds silly, but that pool was summer in my mind. To drain it would be to end even the notion of reconciliation with Daisy. It would be the end of my parties. What would I do next? I certainly didn’t know. So much of my life was manifested by things I wish I had but never did.

“Don’t do it today,” I said, glancing at Nick. I wished he wouldn’t leave me alone, not now. I needed him and I wanted to think he needed me too. We never said it, but I think we were each other’s best and, perhaps, only friend. “You know, old sport,” I said, still studying Nick’s face, “I never used that pool all summer?” Even the idea of it was absurd. Mr. Green simply nodded and walked away.

“Twelve minutes to my train,” was all he said. I looked down at my shoes. I didn’t want him to go. Then I felt a nudge against my hand. Glancing back at my friend, he sent me a sad smile and I knew that meant he would stay as long as he could. And so, I nudged him back.

He missed two trains, making him absurdly late for work. I felt bad, yet he seemed content here, beside me. I didn’t choose to ruminate long on what that might mean. Nevertheless, I was eternally grateful for his company.

When the time came for him to leave, he simply stood and nodded at me. “I’ll call you up,” he mumbled, after a long pause. 

“Do, old sport.” And I meant it.

“I’ll call you about noon.” Noon. I could make it to then. Yet the idea of his phone call made me think of another’s.

“I suppose Daisy’ll call too?” I phrased the statement questioningly, more to myself than anyone. I glanced at Nick’s features and saw that familiar look of pity.

“I suppose so.”

I looked anywhere but at his eyes. “Well, good-by.” I murmured softly. I felt that uneasy feeling in my stomach, the discontent and fear of being alone.

He grabbed my hand in his and shook it tightly. He had a soft palm with calloused fingers. His handshake was firm but not painful. Yet there was some air of finality about it, as if we would never shake hands again.

His fingers lingered on my own until he finally turned away. I watched him walk across the lawn and was about to walk back inside when I saw him turn. 

“They’re a rotten crowd!” He shouted to me. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.” I nodded, then grinned like a schoolboy.

I don’t believe Nick had ever said anything so kind, to me, before that point. I suppose, in a way, I felt the same about him. After all, I didn’t know what was so great about a name like Gatsby, not when Nick Carraway was so captivating.

He thanked me for my hospitality, but it truly wasn’t necessary. I had always felt that anything I had, he was welcome to. Still, I made an exaggerated bow and he chuckled.

“Good-by. I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.” He said that in a way that felt far too serious. I laughed wholeheartedly, waving one last time.

I don’t remember much of what I did that day. I remember lying in bed, tossing and turning in my pink suit, too lazy to change and too awake to sleep. For a while, I waited by the telephone, not sure whose voice I wished to hear more: that of the woman who broke my heart, or the man who thought he could mend it. I remember going to the library and attempting to read while being entirely unable to focus. Finally, around 2 o’clock I decided to change into my bathing suit. Summer wasn’t over, I would make sure of it. Laughing to myself, I went to the garage and pulled out the pneumatic mattress. Then I tracked down the butler and insisted that should any phone calls come, he was to walk to the pool and tell me. My chauffeur helped me blow up the air mattress.

“Leave the open car here, don’t take it out under any circumstances,” I instructed when we had finished. He gave me a strange look but nodded, watching as I carried the mattress with me. He asked if I needed help, to which I didn’t audibly respond. I didn’t need to. I left him standing there.

As I lay in my mattress on the pool, I was overcome by a sensation of peace like no other. The clouds looked so beautiful and the air was so clear. That is, I think, what makes the next moment so ironic.

A man I had never before met stumbled into my yard, face red, eyes blazing.

“You fucking killed her.” At first I thought he yelled the phrase. But he whispered it. With such emotion, such loathing, that had he yelled it would have lost its meaning. I saw that he was holding a gun and I immediately understood the situation. I reached down next to me, feeling the cool metal of the pistol.

The shots fired at the same time. It felt cold, sticky and wet. While my bullet had killed the man almost instantly, his had lodged itself in my gut. I looked down, holding the wound, cradling it, knowing I was going to die. There was blood everywhere. As my eyes rolled back in my head, Nick’s worried face flashed in my mind. No longer was I plagued with thoughts of Daisy or how she had wronged me. No, instead I thought of how my death would affect him. Would he stay here, beside my home, a witness to such tragedy? Or, more likely, would he leave, forever trying to escape the misery of West Egg?

I lay there, cold and dying, thinking only of his last words to me. I was no better than the rest. If I had been, I should have stayed by him much longer, not held onto this foolish charade. Instead, the captivating Carraway will find me here, torn and broken like a ragdoll and wonder if he could have done something.

If I were still in the world of the living, I would want to be there for him, to let him know that he was the greatest friend a man could ever have. And so, the story glows on, like the everlasting glimmer of the green light across the bay.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this isn't happy, but I like to think that this is what was going through Jay's mind during this scene.


End file.
